


Silver Lining

by Random_Nexus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, M/M, One Shot, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, Series 04? What Series 04?, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 19:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17586878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: it's Sherlock and John's anniversary and Sherlock's been delayed getting home — flangst ensues.Warnings:Manly smooches, Romantic drivel, Flangst (fluff/angst), No plot whatsoever - big surprise.





	Silver Lining

**Author's Note:**

> I think I missed it last year, but I had the notion to make a short thing for the Beeblock anniversary this year and managed to do so before keyboard face stole me away. Hope some of you enjoy it, dear readers.

Sherlock stared sullenly through the taxi’s window at the nighttime streets, spatters and streaks of rainwater on the glass scattered and diffracted the lights. It was nearly midnight and he’d been traveling since early morning the previous day, when he should have already been home for 10 hours; delayed flights and the unending stupidity of bureaucracy had made his trip torture, nearly from start to finish.

The worst of it was that John had not been with him, because that would have made the whole experience more of an adventure than a necessary evil. However, he could not in all honesty deny that Mycroft had been right about not bringing John along for the series of meetings with Mycroft’s peers and counterparts, not that he had resisted for more than a nanosecond in arguing the point. Of course he had faced far worse tortures alone, some leaving him permanently scarred in body and mind, but just because he _could_ survive it alone did not mean he preferred it that way—at least, not anymore. Still, it had warmed him to know, if only in the privacy of his mind palace, that John would have been very angry on his behalf at some of the questions put to Sherlock in those meetings, let alone some of the comments.

Though he had hated every minute of the whole process, the only good thing to come out of it all was that he was completely free of any charges or lingering obligations from Magnussen’s death. Mycroft had promised this would end the whole matter completely, once and for all, and it seemed, given the way things were phrased and the body language of those involved, his big brother had not misled him this time. Another reason not to have brought John: the man had not wholly forgiven Mycroft for his part in a number of things from Sherlock’s fake death to Mary’s true nature to the entire business with Magnussen.

For all that this dark cloud had a silver lining of a sort, today had been an important day for Sherlock and John, personally. On this day—though the day was nearly over—in 2010, Sherlock had met John for the first time at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Every year since then, excepting the years when Sherlock was ‘dead’, he and John had indulged in some kind of celebration, even if it was takeaway and crap telly. Since they had become lovers as well as friends, the celebrations had been more romantic, perhaps, but no less important in Sherlock’s mind. He knew they were just as important to John, if not more so, since the man had lost Sherlock to a death as genuine as if Sherlock had actually leapt from that rooftop and dashed his brains out on the pavement below; it had been real to John at the time, and his grief no less painful for the fact of Sherlock’s return years later. It would only be the 29th for another… Sherlock checked his watch… twelve minutes.

Cursing under his breath, Sherlock recognised the intersection they had just passed as being about ten minutes’ distance from Baker Street, under the best of conditions. He wasn’t going to make it, even on a technicality.

When the cab pulled up at the kerb, Sherlock had already noted the lights on inside, the familiar golden glow from the lamp near the front window telling him John had waited up, of course. He saw movement at the curtains and was not at all surprised when the door opened even as Sherlock got out of the cab. John came out despite the drizzle, wearing one of his favourite homely jumpers and a welcoming smile, which he turned on Sherlock as he reached out to take his bag.

Feeling the ache in his middle—one he’d been trying to ignore for days—easing from the warmth of John’s smile, Sherlock knew his own lips were curving into an answering grin of genuine happiness as John pulled him down by the lapel into a kiss.

“Hey, you,” John said softly, giving a quick tilt of his head to indicate they should go inside. Nodding, Sherlock let himself be led, John’s warm hand in his own chilled one almost before he had the thought of reaching for it.

Once inside, following John up the stairs, Sherlock finally found his voice. “Sorry, John.”

“For what?” John didn’t stop, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand, and only turned to face him once they were inside the flat.

“I was meant to be back yesterday,” Sherlock said harshly, his frustration for the delay, not John’s question. “I’ve missed it for the first time in years; the whole day is gone.”

Looking down at his watch, John shook his head, his smile never quite fully fading. “Nope, one whole minute left. C’mere.” He leaned into Sherlock, one hand curving around the back of his neck to pull him into a much more thorough kiss. It was welcome, homecoming, comfort, and forgiveness, all in one. As always, Sherlock felt the bittersweet mix of love, gratitude, and humble awareness of his own unworthiness—no matter how often John argued that last point, Sherlock knew himself and what he had done to this man—but it was mostly about the love these days, if he was honest. When he opened his eyes, John said in a quieter, sweeter tone, “Happy anniversary, Sherlock.”

“But I’ve missed it,” Sherlock said, his own voice quieter as well, but from regret. “I know you made plans for us to dine at Angelo’s.”

John’s brows crooked upward in what would have been a frown if not for the fact that he was still, very slightly, smiling. “Of course I did.”

“Which my delay has ruined,” Sherlock pointed out needlessly, more in the spirit of self-flagellation than saying anything John didn’t know.

“Nope,” John said again, now beginning to look smug as he reached up and cupped Sherlock’s face in his warm, warm palms. “Yes, the anniversary of the day we met is on the 29th and that was over a few seconds ago, however…” John’s smugness increased as he drew out the last word, but so did the affection in his expression. “We didn’t go to Angelo’s until the _next_ day, the 30th, as I’m sure you will recall, and I have standing reservations in our usual booth. _Tonight_ ,” he added firmly, “which gives you about nineteen hours to clean up, get some sleep, and then—”

Without letting John finish his sentence, easily intuiting what it was to have been, Sherlock caught him up in a huge embrace, laughing into the crook of John’s neck as he practically lifted him off his feet. John’s own laughter vibrated through him, loud in his ear, but welcome all the same. As tired and full of mixed emotions as he was, Sherlock could only say the one, simple and yet infinitely complex, word that meant the most to him: “ _John!_ ”


End file.
